


Teliko

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-14
Updated: 2002-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 05:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Livia's X-Title challenge. Clark knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teliko

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Q for betaing. Written for Livia's X-Title challenge: <http://www.debchan.com/livia/smallville/xtitle.html>

## Teliko

by Grail

<http://www.livejournal.com/users/bookend>

* * *

Title: Teliko 

Author: Grail 

Summary: Clark knows. 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't get out much. 

Feedback: Better than coffee: grail@graffiti.net 

Teliko is Greek for "end." 

* * *

Sometimes, in the space between awake and dreaming, Clark knows that it won't last. 

He's sixteen. Old enough to know that his parents' idealistic approximation of forever isn't a realistic thing. 

Old enough to know, weaned on Smallville's eccentricities, that nothing ever stays the same. 

Eternity doesn't exist, Clark knows. 

So instead, he wonders when it will end. 

He's never said anything to Lex. Has imagined the conversation so many times that the script's well-worn in his head, dog-eared. 

"Live in the moment," Lex will say, purple-shirted and neatly pressed, not realizing that he's adopted Jonathan Kent's fortune-cookie mode of speech. "Fuck everything else, Clark." And he'll trail fingers through Clark's hair, remembered reflex of soothing a childhood pet, and Clark will smile into his hand and think about when Lex will stop touching him. 

It's not a fling. That much he knows. 

Clark is pretty sure that flings involve Hawaiian breezes and too much liquor and sand in unwanted crevices. 

Flings aren't his palms charting the curve of Lex's scull, isn't the straw in his hair when Lex pushes him down and Clark moves with him, pretending not to care that his parents are next door nursing late-night coffees. 

But. Lex isn't his boyfriend. They don't have the awkwardness of high school dating, though there's plenty of fumbling in the shadowed backseat of too-expensive cars. No searching, embarrassed looks in locker-lined hallways, no promising notes passed during boring classes. Lex can't peck his cheek in hello, Lana-like, birdlike, so Lex slams him against walls. And Clark lets him. Likes it. 

Wishes that for once, it could be when they're not alone. Cocooned in the privacy of Lex's office, Lex's bedroom, Lex's cars, Lex's kitchen, Lex could be wearing Clark's fucking Smallville High jacket and nothing else and no one would be the wiser. Can strip him naked and make a meal of him on the cold tiles of the counter. Straddle him on the edge of the pool so that the tips of Clark's toes dip into water and Lex dips into him. 

And. 

No one knows. 

Clark thinks sometimes that if he could take Lex's hand, let other eyes see him doing this, weaving fingers, it might. Make them real. 

He's not sure what they are. If there's ever been anything like them. But Clark has spent the better part of his life striving for normalcy, for the attainment of an Average Joe mantle, and the urge to classify them is like an itch. What they are. What they feel. What the fuck they think they're doing. 

Lex's nails scraping unmarked lengths on his back can't solve it. Doesn't begin to eradicate the traitorous -- the realistic -- thoughts that crawl up his spine and take up permanent residence in his subconscious. 

Clark is sixteen, and that's old enough to know that Lex Luthor will never be tied down. 

So he keeps it light. Tries to. They're best friends. 

That much has been defined. 

They talk and laugh and watch bad movies, drink too much coffee from Lana's pretty Talon mugs. Tear off each other's clothes and kiss and suck and fuck and Clark's uncertainty about sex, at least, has ceased to keep him awake. He's always been a fast learner, and he's good at it. Lex is a good teacher. 

But Clark knows. 

He's been naive in the past. Toed the line of dense. 

He won't let himself be naive about this. 

"You're so innocent," Lex said, once, his lips along the jut of Clark's collarbone. "You're pristine." 

Later, with nothing between them but skin: "I just want to scour myself against you. " 

And Clark wondered if Lex really knew him at all. 

Sure, he's got the wide-eyed look, the endless well of stupid questions, the glaring lack of world experience beyond Smallville's county lines. 

Lex calls him corn-fed, seems to love that Clark's is a quaint life of schoolbooks and manual labor. 

Ironic, really, that Clark's life is mutants and strength and he might fucking kill for a chance at quaint. 

But. For Lex. 

His very own authentic posable country boy. Complete with overbearing parents to outwit and detachable farm equipment, intellect and flannel sold separately. 

Sometimes Clark thinks that he's this -- project, an experiment that Lex is undertaking with the rigor of a born scientist. That's when he lies awake at night and waits for Lex to formulate his conclusion and be done with him. 

"I've run extensive tests," Lex will say, laying out methodical charts of Clark's sexual prowess and eligibility to remain in his presence. "And I'm afraid that I'm going to have to get the fuck out of this backwards deathtrap of a town." His face will be diplomatic, placating, his father's smile. "It's been real fun, Clark. My diamond-encrusted friends and I will have a good laugh at your expense over Cristal in Metropolis." 

Clark should feel guilty for his ungenerous thoughts, he knows. Lex has never given any indication that he's playing with him out of some kind of ennui-born amusement. Never given any sign that he wants to pull away. 

Cancels meetings to spend time with him, provides unavailable tickets like some kind of walking, Armani-clad Ticketmaster. Takes them on nighttime rides that make the dreary slope of Kansas landscape seem wild. 

Can spend an entire afternoon licking him, as if the memorization of Clark's body is a necessary thing for his tongue's continued survival. 

But sometimes, even with Lex mouthing kisses against his neck, all Clark can think about is when he won't be enough anymore. 

Because contrary to Lex's popular belief, Clark is pretty sure that he moved away from innocence a long time ago. 

Maybe it was the first time Lex kissed him, or he kissed Lex, or whatever; the eventual, inevitable push of Lex inside him was almost an afterthought to the startling revelation of their mouths. 

Or maybe he'd lost it in the moment his body impacted with cold water and he peeled back the roof of a Porsche. It could have been gone a long time before that, with the realization that he could toss obnoxious kids halfway across the playground and then some. 

Clark isn't innocent, if he ever was, but at night, when everything's quieter and clearer, he knows that it's the presumption of purity that keeps Lex coming back for more. 

And it's not who he is. 

Doesn't even know _what_ he is. 

He's not sure exactly what he wants from Lex, what could make him stop staring up into the dark recesses of the barn ceiling and get some fucking sleep. The way the are -- whatever they are -- is something close to perfect. Should be. 

Lex is friend, confidant, fuck-buddy, teacher, provider, corrupter. Lex smiles at him and lets the smile touch his eyes. Lex makes Clark the center of his attention, even in crowds of milling people. Especially then. Lex moves like sex solidified. 

And Clark knows that forever is a word made up by romance novelists. 

Knows what he doesn't want. Runs through the scenarios in his head. Doesn't want false declarations of things that Lex can't know. Can't really believe. "We're soulmates, Clark." Because those exist. "I love you." Impossible. Makes for too many complications when Lex decides to leave. Isn't sure that Lex's vocal chords are even capable of producing the statement anyway. "I'm not going anywhere, Clark." And Clark laughs and calls scenario-Lex a fucking liar. 

Lex is going to be President. 

Is going to marry some coiffed senator's daughter, and the smoothly-run machine of his publicity is going to put so much distance between himself and Clark that Smallville will be less than a blip on his impressive resume -- charming, character-building time spent in the boondocks. There will be no scandals, no "I did not have sexual relations with that farmboy." President Luthor, he knows, will be able to look through him and forget that his tongue still retains the outline of Clark's body. 

When it ends, Clark will have a drawer full of stuff and the question of whether he can ever be with anyone else. Of what Lex has done to him. For him. 

Lex buys him things. Little things, chosen with conscious precision, quasi-gifts bought out of his pocket change so that Clark can't return them for being too lavish. 

Books that aren't the first editions that grace his library walls. Used works of long-dead philosophers and Clark thinks it might be Lex's handwriting in the scrawled margin notes. Items filched from his business trips, the stock features of luxury hotels that Clark will never visit. Clark has a collection of tiny shampoo bottles now, their labels a collage of exotic languages. Chocolate from a myriad of airports, shaped into a tourist's dream of landmarks. Things Lex says made him think of him, like the rounded rugby ball from his excursion to London ("makes football look like seniors' golf, Clark") and when Lex buys himself a CD, there's always a duplicate for Clark. 

Clark didn't know what to do with all of it. 

Still doesn't. Cleared out a space in his bottom drawer and filled it with Lex's attempt to evidence that. They are. 

Something. 

Made him a lamp in shop class once in an awkward attempt at reciprocation. Lex's overbearing secretary actually let him keep it on his desk for almost a week and a half before spiriting it off as "distasteful." 

Lex gave him something tonight, when he dropped Clark off. Pressed it into his hand and tilted his head. Glinted an amused look and Clark had leaned into his shoulder, hard. "You look so fucked," Lex laughed, and kissed him. "Give Jonathan and Martha my love, Clark." 

And Clark had kicked him, soft, cursed him, kissed back, because Jonathan and Martha wouldn't want Lex Luthor's love. They'd want to know how his late-night study session with Chloe had gone, and maybe why he looked so royally and thoroughly screwed. 

It's been resting on his stomach for most of the night. 

Clark turns onto his side, wincing at a half-glimpse of the first signs of sunrise outside. Draws the small package up close and resists the urge to x-ray it. Lex had seemed pleased with his purchase. 

A plain brown paper bag, and he can't help thinking that Lex is over the top even in his attempts at simplicity. As if Clark would refuse a gift for the expense of generic wrapping paper. 

Pulls through the tape and shakes loose the bag's contents. Hollow clink of plastic and. Clark closes his eyes. 

His palms are full of tiny chess pieces. 

Cheap, and badly made; a travel set that probably hailed from the Toys 'R Us in Metropolis. Five dollars, maybe. Less. 

But Clark scrubs a hand over the imperfect edges and doesn't breathe for a long time. 

He'd begged Lex to teach him how to play, months ago, after noticing a half-finished game laid out in the study. Pieces like miniature works of art, elaborate curlicues of wood on marble. There'd been something vaguely menacing about the setup, the advance of one color across the board, the upended clutch of won pieces lying scattered along the edge. 

"My father," Lex had explained, joining Clark by the table. Slanted a sardonic smile. "Left for an 'important business meeting' when he realized I was going to checkmate him in four more moves." 

Clark had reached for the white king, an instinct. Tested the weight of it in his hand. "Show me." 

He wondered if strip chess had ever existed before that night. 

But Clark had liked the game itself, liked the smooth motion of Lex's fingers on the sculpted pieces, never hesitant. Liked that there was something calm about Lex and chess, in the almost relaxed lull of his voice as he reiterated rules and made quiet suggestions. 

After a week of his face clenched in concentration, of studying Lex's moves, of naked chess and after-sex chess, Clark wanted to play a real game. Had eyed Lex from across the length of the board in the billiard room, where the pieces were pale jade so delicate that he was always half-afraid to touch them. 

"The gloves are coming off," Clark said, and grinned at Lex's elegant arch of eyebrow. "Don't help me." 

Lex had been busy arranging the board with almost fanatical precision. "Clark. I've been playing since I was five. You can't really -- " 

"Just don't, okay?" 

Lex beat him in three minutes. 

Tried to make it look like he'd been trying. 

Lex always insists that Clark be white, that he have the advantage of moving first. Pretends to be considering his options when Clark knows that the movements needed to beat him had been anticipated before he even set down his chosen piece. Lex always wins. 

Except. 

Once. Once, Clark cheated. 

In what he later realized had been a test, Clark changed the setup of the board. Moved pieces quickly, too quickly, his hands a blur of motion when Lex's eyes had been closed on a blink. 

Nothing drastic, just the nudge of one bishop, the compromising of a pawn. Had sent Lex's carefully strategized attack straight to hell. When it was his turn again, he moved his knight into checkmate. 

Lex looked at the board for a long time. 

Looked at the pieces and at Clark. 

Looked like he had when Clark pulled him from the river. 

Confused, and maybe something a little like shocked. A lot like disbelieving. 

And then, raising his gaze from the knight and the king. 

Grateful. 

His lips had pressed a tight line, expression shuttered, but his eyes said something else entirely. 

Lex was profoundly grateful to have been beaten. 

To be human. 

And Clark. Couldn't look at him. Couldn't stare across at the man who looked like he'd just been handed redemption from the superspeeded hands of a cheater. 

He's pretty sure now that he knows how Lex felt. 

Clark is indestructible. Nothing can touch him. Meteor rocks can be tossed away, crushed, the people they've affected sent sailing into the air. Metal is mutable and bullets graze. 

Lex has broken him. 

Pushed past his defenses, shoved his naivete aside, shown him things he shouldn't see, shouldn't feel. Takes care of him and taunts him, spoils him and fucks him and had an expression in his eyes when he lost the chess game that was unlike anything Clark had ever seen. 

Thankful for the chance to be less than perfect. To be internally inferior in a way that his father and all the tabloids in the world will never see, because the only flaw in Lex is Clark. 

And there will be an end. 

When Lex leaves, Clark will be strong. Will be lacking the singular element that can hurt him, that can help him, that can make everything ideal and impossible. Lex will be untouchable, safe in the knowledge that the one person he's lost to, can let himself lose to, won't be following. 

Lex will be free. And Clark will be invulnerable. 

He'll have a drawer full of Lex, of Lex's attempts at sentimentality. The remembrance of their mouths. Flash of Lex's eyes when Clark's knight touched the ivory square of chessboard. Touch of fingers to his hair. 

It's good, he thinks, to stare into the darkness, willing sleep, knowing that it won't come. Facing reality. Clark can feel the tug of their ending, and he may never sleep again. 

He's sixteen. He knows. 

And it helps. 

But only sometimes. 


End file.
